


The Meaning of Color

by green_spear_of_causality88



Series: The Multiverse Is A Wide And Lonely Place [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aka Therapy's Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Inktale (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Therapytale (Undertale), An AU created from an amazing Discord Server!, Emotional Manipulation, Finding your way, Horror Outer Dream and Blue are mentioned for a hot second at the end, Manipulation, it ends happy i swear, oh wow he goes through it, the meaning of color, to SAVE and BE SAVED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 06:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30084762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_spear_of_causality88/pseuds/green_spear_of_causality88
Summary: How Therapy (Therapytale Sans) came to be the monster he is today.
Series: The Multiverse Is A Wide And Lonely Place [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081001
Comments: 13
Kudos: 12





	The Meaning of Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HyperCircuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperCircuit/gifts), [Finally_Free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finally_Free/gifts), [Megmelomaniac_123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megmelomaniac_123/gifts).



> Hi! Welcome to Therapytale, an Undertale AU inspired by an amazing Undertale Discord server I'm in! This ties in with HyperCircuit's story featuring Shattered getting absolutely dunked on

The first thing Sans remembers is the white room.

It always comes back to the white room. The ceiling is white, the floor is white, the furniture is white. There’s no speck of color...not even on himself.

His personality is duller.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He sits in the center of that white room, staring at nothing and thinking of nothing. He moves when he’s moved by someone else; he faintly recalls gentle hands placing him in certain poses as a human voice explains something to their companion. He could care less if they were talking about him, because his room is bland and his SOUL is blander.

They run tests on him, trying to figure out where they went wrong. They try to fix him, get him to move, but they never tell him how to move and all he sees is white so he stays where he is.

After a few months of this the voices leave, locking the door and turning off the lights. They never come back.

His creation is deemed a failure.

The longest he’s ever stayed motionless after being discarded is two weeks, before it’s followed by the first splash of color.

The lights turn back on, bringing him back to the blank state of his room. Black moves across his vision, making his eyelights slowly trail over to inspect it. A human stands in front of him, their hands clasped behind their back as they scrutinize him with eyes the color of what humans bleed.

“Now why would they abandon a project as groundbreaking as you?” The human asks, and Sans doesn’t respond because he’s too busy focusing on the black of their shirt.

_White isn’t the only thing to exist?_

The human says something else, but it doesn’t register. They say more, but he’s still looking at their shirt. This seems to make the human angry, because a sharp pain resonates from his cheekbone as his skull snaps to the side.

The human lowers their hand from the slap, eyes narrowed. “Look at me when I speak to you,” they growl. “That’s an order.”

Something resonates within Sans at the words, the last one making him look them in the eyes. _It’s another color,_ he marvels. One of his phalanges twitches by his side. He...He wants to see how many more there are.

_This human can show him more colors._

“So you _can_ move,” The human says with a pleased grin, taking a step back. “Good. Let’s see...walk to the other side of the room.”

Sans stays where he is. Their grin falls into a confused frown, though their eyes spark with curiosity. “...Interesting. Walk to the other side of the room. That’s an order.”

Sans’ body moves on its own, and he slowly walks towards the opposite wall. His legs are shaking from the long period of disuse but that’s okay, because he was given a command after living his life without one and he has to fulfill it. Orders spark something in him, giving him a purpose. They get him closer to seeing colors.

The human seems to realize this too, because a smirk appears on their face. 

_“You’re perfect.”_

And for the first time, Sans feels something other than the emptiness.

_He feels wanted._

* * *

_He’s soon transported to another facility. The human had to blindfold him after giving the order to follow them outside because the sudden rush of color from the world beyond the white facility is too much for his mind to handle. He had buckled, then, clawing at his eye sockets but not wanting to look away because there’s_ **_so much color and so much he wants to take in but it’s too much all at once and he can’t-_ **

_“You’re lucky you make the perfect candidate for Project_Geno,” they grumbled as they tied a harsh knot around his skull. He didn’t say anything as they tugged on his arm to lead him, welcoming the rush of darkness. “because there’s a lot of work we need to do with you if you’re going to be our ace in the hole.”_

**_Work._ ** _They’re going to...work on him?_ **_They still want him around?_ ** _In that moment something beat in his SOUL, and for some reason the corners of his mouth wanted to defy gravity._ **_He’s wanted._ ** _He’s learning a lot today, it seems, and it’s all thanks to the colors._

_It took an hour to get him to the other facility, riding in the back of a truck. The open air was foreign to him, but it gently hit his face and soothed the sting from the human’s earlier slap._

_The white room was the furthest thing from his mind, the blankness no longer welcoming in a world full of color. He’s leaving it behind in favor of a brighter future._

“I order you to jump twice,” the human who rescued him speaks over the intercom, bringing him back to the present. He blinks and does as he’s told without question, his feet thudding to the ground once he completes it.

He’s in a room again, but this time there’s color. Different hues shine back at him from every surface, and he has yet to learn their names. Maybe the nice human who rescued him will show him those, too.

“Is it still not speaking?” A different human asks over the intercom, writing something down. Sans can tell because there’s a glass panel high on the wall to his left, multiple other humans gathered around it to peer down at him. “That’s peculiar. The notes we stole from the facility the Seers abandoned state that they created a living monster from scratch. The stats on Type-004 even look promising. From what we’ve seen, it _should_ have working vocals.”

“They must have not known how to activate it,” another human says, tone flippant. “Not to mention they were in a hurry to create a counterattack for us. We _were_ pushing into their territory, after all. They can give a creation all the enhanced stuff they want, but if they don’t have time to train it then it’s useless.”

“That means there’s only one way to find out. All you, boss.”

There’s murmurs of agreement. His rescuer comes back to the mic and addresses him again. “Speak to us. That’s an order.”

Sans opens his mouth to say _as you wish_ and succeeds _,_ but in reality all that comes out are hums and grunts. The other humans immediately begin writing something down, which confuses him. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? He can understand them just fine, so shouldn’t they be able to understand him?

He catches the phrases “physical training” and “speech pathologist”. A small voice inside of him wants to ask what those mean, but he remembers the earlier slap from…”Boss”, if he remembers right. He doesn’t want to disappoint Boss again. Boss showed him a new world, so they _must_ know what’s best for him, right?

_They_ **_want_ ** _him around. They know what’s best for him, just like how they knew the blank room wasn’t for him._

The door to the room opens, and numerous hands tug him away. He doesn’t move his feet until Boss orders him to, and then he’s following along with no hesitation.

_They’ll show him what comes with a world full of color. They live among the colors which means they have more experience, and he wants to live among them, too._

* * *

It takes a few weeks before there’s any real progress. The humans start with his physical training, which include having him lift weights with both his limbs _and_ his magic. He’s nearly collapsed a couple of times, but that’s okay too; they’re learning his limits, _he’s_ learning his limits, and together they’re pushing past them. If he Falls Down due to the strain, then that means he isn’t worthy of them or the world filled with color.

He just has to prove himself.

So over the next few months he learns, adapts, and soon he’s able to teleport across the room while simultaneously summoning bone constructs without too much difficulty. Boss visits from time to time as well, praising him on how far he’s come, and his SOUL beats with what he thinks is pride. It certainly _feels_ nice, because it means that he’s doing well and that he’s still useful.

_That he’s still wanted._

It’s this thought that makes him fly through the tasks Boss gives him. He feels no love for the monsters or humans that die by his hand, because they’re standing against the one who showed him the colorful world and his group can’t be wrong. They give him orders, and he complies. They point him towards the enemy, and he kills them. 

(Anything to take the weight off their shoulders. Anything to get closer to being a part of that colorful world.)

Then, suddenly, a new color is introduced to him.

A human is led into his room two days after he assassinates the head of a rival sect, led in by Boss. The first thing he notices about this human is that the air around them is different. It’s not as large as Boss’, it’s not colored like the blood of fallen opponents, and it doesn’t turn heads their way at a moment’s notice...but their smile is warm. Understanding.

_It’s the same color as their shirt._

“Type 004, this is Frisk, your speech pathologist,” he hears Boss say to his right. He gives a slow nod to show he heard them, not looking away from the new color. He’s learned that if he doesn’t give a reaction, he gets punished for it, which is fair. He was making it harder for them to understand him, and he doesn’t want that. “Frisk, this is Slaughter_Assassinate_Neutralize_Secure: Type-004, also known as S.A.N.S. Our first success...or will be, when it learns how to speak properly.”

The new human - _Frisk, their name is Frisk,_ he thinks, and even after a few months it’s still strange to have thoughts of his own - raises their hand to him. “It’s nice to meet ya, Sans.”

He glances at Boss for confirmation, who tilts their head towards Frisk. They’ve gotten to the point that all it takes for Sans to comply is to look at them for facial cues. It comes in handy in case an ambush is launched on their base of operations and he can’t hear Boss’ words over gunfire.

So he turns his skull back to Frisk and takes their hand, giving it a slow shake with a hum. They give a nod at the display, seeming to scrutinize him for a moment before turning to Boss.

“The earliest I can have him fully talkin’ by is two months.”

“Make it happen in one,” Boss says. Frisk’s brows furrow. “we don’t have time. We need it ready to be fully functional for the raid.”

“But-”

Boss’ smirk twitches, and Sans surges forward to twist Frisk’s hands behind their back. They go rigid, and to their credit they don’t shout in pain. 

“I believe I said _one month,”_ Boss says smoothly. Sans subtly shifts his hold so that he can afford to reach a hand towards the side to summon a bone construct. “Make it happen, or else you know what’s to come.”

It’s a tense silence. Boss’ smirk tightens...and then Frisk sighs, sagging in defeat.

“Alright...I’ll do it. When do I start?”

Boss snaps their fingers, and Sans lets go to teleport to their side. An arm is haphazardly thrown across his shoulders, the other giving his face a few pats on the cheekbone. Sans doesn’t flinch. “You start now, actually,” they say, and they give his skull one firm pat before moving away. He knows what it means; it’s a warning. _Don’t screw this up._ “Type-004, Frisk has full clearance to give you any commands. You follow what they say, got it? That’s an order. Now have fun you two~”

Boss leaves, the automatic door closing shut behind them. Frisk drops to the floor, motioning for him to do the same. “Well, let’s get started.”

He doesn’t move. They give a sigh, rubbing a hand down their face.

“I...uh. Order ya to sit down…?”

Sans moves, taking a seat across from them so abruptly that they startle. They give him a tense smile, instead pulling a notepad and paper out of their pocket.

“I heard you were taught to write by a teacher they abducted a while back. Since ya can’t talk now, how ‘bout I start with the basics and ya write if ya get it or not,” they explain as they hand the items over. Sans takes them without hesitation, blankly staring down at the page. “If ya have any questions, don’t be afraid to pause the session an’ write it down to show me. Your comfort is more important than your learning.”

He gives a slow blink, white eyelights shifting from the blank page to them. They shift uncomfortably, giving him a weak smile of reassurance once he begins to scribble something. It’s important, and if he doesn’t ask now then it’ll eat him up from the inside and affect his performance.

His handwriting is small and sloppy, making it apparent that he was rushed through the learning process. It takes two minutes for Frisk to decipher it.

_The name of the color of your shirt._

They blink in confusion, opening their mouth to speak before it clicks. “Oh, this? ’s called green. Have ya...never heard of it…?”

He shakes his head, gaze drifting to their shirt to take in the color. _Green,_ he sounds out in his head, his SOUL beating with warmth, and for a moment his eyelights flicker to a different color.

_Green is nice._

(He doesn’t notice the plethora of emotions that flit across Frisk’s face before settling on one of resolution, a fire burning in their eyes. They’re going to teach Sans the truth about his organization, and they’re going to show him that there’s more to life than killing.)

* * *

The first week is, unsurprisingly, the worst week. It was less of Sans learning how to speak and more of Frisk figuring out how to work with him, getting a bit frustrated when he refused to respond unless given an order. Sans was learning how to interact with Frisk, too, committing all of their ticks to memory in case Boss orders him to lead an interrogation on them. 

(He overhears from a few employees how Frisk is one of their many hostages taken from the Dreemurr sect, a large organization comprised of both humans _and_ monsters. The Dreemurrs are notorious for promoting peace between all sects, wanting to work together towards a brighter future, but Boss calls them fools and their sect’s most hated enemy so they _must_ be wrong with their approach.)

The second week goes by a little bit smoother. Frisk doesn’t know whether to be happy or revolted that Sans has the ability to soak up information like a sponge, being able to talk half a sentence with concentration halfway through the week. They’ve stopped using orders altogether, fed up with the system, and now _he’s_ the one left scrambling to adapt. He still uses the notepad to ask questions, but any statement he says is short and has either the words “Boss” or “color” in it.

_This organization has the perfect machine on their hands,_ they remember thinking as they passed by the glass panel looking into Sans’ room on the way to get coffee, hearing the whine of Gaster Blasters before seeing bone constructs embed themselves into a wall. Boss claps on the safe side of the glass, eyes shining with glee at their “pet project”. _A bona-fide robot. This is worse than I thought. This is inhumane. We need t’ act fast, or else our goals are done for._

(Not to mention that Papyrus and Gaster would be ecstatic to see another skeleton walking about. They may work as therapists, but even _they_ can see the exhaustion in their eyelights as they search for a way to unify them all alongside the King and Queen...and this isn’t even _counting_ the fact that Gaster has appointments with skeletons from alternate universes, slowly helping them through their trauma.)

By the third week, Frisk notices that Sans is picking up their speech patterns. He drawls words at the same length they do, he cuts off the ends of some, and he even unintentionally says a pun. _There’s a monster who can feel in there,_ they’re sure, _and dammit they’re gonna SAVE that monster._

They just have to wait for the right moment.

“Are ya happy? Or are ya havin’ a bad time?” They ask near the end of the third week.

“What d’ya mean?” Sans counters with another question as he draws a crude picture of a cat. Frisk had explained what they were to him a few days ago, and they sounded interesting. He wonders if what he’s heard about their fluffiness is true.

Frisk frowns. “I mean, are you satisfied? With all of this?”

Sans hums as he thinks, eyelights trailing off to the side as he concentrates. “Am sati-...satisfied. Followin’ orders.”

Their frown deepens as they glance up at the glass. There’s no one observing them this time, the leader having gone to scope out the Dreemurr sect for their invasion. This is their only opportunity to ACT. “Are ya really, though?”

Sans looks back at them, eye sockets narrowing in confusion. “Why wouldn’t...I be? Am...doin’ fon- fine.”

“Ya may be _doin’_ fine,” they press on, leaning forward, “but do ya _feel_ fine?”

His browbones furrow. What’s with their sudden insistence? They’ve never done this before. What brought it on? “I…Colors make me fine. Make me...happy.”

Relief sparks in their eyes, and they lean back. They seem relaxed, happy even, and Sans looks over his previous actions to see what warranted the change but comes up empty-handed. _Frisk’s weird,_ he decides, but then again their aura isn’t like the others in this facility so he chalks it up to that.

Then they state the sentence that cracks his blank world.

“I can teach ya about colors.”

And they do. They tell him stories about the colors. They tell him what each one is interpreted to mean, and they ask him how they make him feel. They tell him about the seven SOUL traits, about magic, about the secondary SOUL color human adults have. They teach him more than the facility ever had, _ever has,_ and they make sure to check in with him to see if he needs them to slow their pace down a bit.

Sans’ SOUL thuds as they talk, a small confused frown resting on his skull. This is the first time anyone’s asked him how he _felt._ Not even _Boss_ wanted to know his emotions, content to know that they have the perfect machine to follow their every whim. It’s strange. It’s confusing. 

It’s...nice?

Boss never sat him down to show him the world of colors. They sent him headlong into a world full of just one: an oppressive red, suffocating enemies and allies alike.

_But Frisk did._

They taught him steady yellows. They taught him fiery oranges. They taught him tenacious purples and perceptive blues.

_They taught him soft greens and secure cyans._

“Why are ya doin’ this for me?” He asks at the start of the fourth week, eyelights flickering. They’ve been doing that for the past two days, ever since Frisk told him about the colors. His SOUL’s been feeling weird too, the usual numbness being replaced by something else. “Ya don’t...have’ta.”

They chuckle, and Sans is blown back by the warm aura he feels emanating from them. It’s like he’s shutting down-... _no, goin’ to sleep, that’s what Frisk calls it_ \- with a cover over him, wrapping him up tight but not enough to hurt. 

He feels...safe. He feels _wanted,_ but more. 

_What’s this feelin’?_

Their smile is soft, patient. “‘cause I care about ya, why else?”

And Sans’ world shatters.

* * *

“...-s your last day with it,” Sans hears Boss say exactly one month after meeting Frisk. “Make sure everything’s in place.”

“I will. I promise.” Frisk’s voice floats over to him from beyond the door, and he pauses his writing on the notepad they gave him. His handwriting looks neater than it did before Frisk came into his life, the letters actually coherent enough to be read by others without him having to do charades. “He’s a fast learner. Have ya considered gettin’ him into advanced courses?”

Boss scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Type-004 has one function and one function only: to kill. Don’t be fooled by its appearance. Now, make this last day count.”

Footsteps retreat from his door as it opens, and he looks up to see Frisk with a sour look on their face. “Rough mornin’?” He asks, already knowing the answer, and they sigh as they plop to the ground across from him.

“Your buddy’s a dick,” they say bluntly, and he huffs out a laugh. “A real piece of work. Ain’t gonna miss ‘em at all.”

His airy laughter falters at that, a frown settling on his skull. “Right…’s the last day ya here.”

They nod, looking as solemn as he feels. “Yep. End of the road for our sessions. I wanted t’ let ya know that you’re one of my favorite clients...even if we got off to a rocky start. So I got ya somethin’.”

He blinks as they reach into their pocket, placing something in his hands and gently closing his phalanges over it. Once they pull away he looks at it, his curiosity spiking. He’s never been given a gift before, but Frisk has told him all about it and-

His SOUL stops.

There, in his grasp and shining back at him, is a monocle. It’s tinged a light blue, magic radiating off of it, and Sans doesn’t need to inspect it further to know that Frisk made this themself.

_This is priceless._

_This is-...This is too much. I can’t accept this._

“Frisk...I-” He starts, a protest ready, only for Frisk to hold their hand up.

“Nope, I’m not takin’ it back. It’s for _you._ Y’know you’re more than a machine, a creation. I’ve seen the way ya handled my things. You’re KIND, an’ this is a little reminder that it’s okay to not know how ya feel right away. It’s okay to not know how someone else feels right away. Ya jus’ gotta be PATIENT.” Then they smile, and it’s warm just like the first day he met them.

“So promise me ya won’t give up on others, Sans. Promise me ya won’t give up on yourself, either, ‘cause someone out there really cares about ya.”

He stares at them. Something foreign builds up in his SOUL, and hot magic leaks out of his eye sockets. He dabs at it, making a confused noise, and then his breath hitches as more fall from his face onto the floor. _Well, this is new._ What’s happening? Why is his magic coming out of his eye sockets?

“Ah shit,” Frisk says as they move over. They wrap his arms around him and he freezes, not expecting the touch, but it feels...nice. Not like the ones Boss gives when they hit him for making even the slightest mistake, or the “relaxed” ones around his shoulder that force him to obey. “I didn’t mean to make ya cry. An’ here I thought _I_ was the sappy one.”

He gives them a watery laugh, still not understanding how he can be happy _when_ _there’s_ _magic leaking from his eyes._ “Takes a sap t’know a sap.”

They pat his back, and he stuffs their gift into his pocket before resting his skull on their shoulder while he cries. All this time...ever since they met, Frisk has been teaching him. Frisk has been looking out for him. Frisk has always _wanted_ him around.

_Frisk cares about him._

His eyelights flicker again, shifting from their usual white to color and back, the process repeating itself faster and faster...before they settle on a soft green, the color of Frisk’s shirt.

He feels warm, happy. Safe. It’s a good feeling, one that reassures him even when he finds himself falling back into old habits. “I promise,” he says, and then he has to say it again to be sure they heard him, “I promise. Is this why ya became a therapist?” He then chokes out, because he _has_ to know. He has to know if there’s a way to share this feeling, this joy. _Of being a part of this splash of color._

He’s pressed further against their shoulder, so he misses their sad smile. “Ya can say that,” they hum, patting the back of his skull. “‘s a long story, but I promise to tell ya all about it...that is, if ya want to come with me. Your choice.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yep,” he says, because there’s nothing left for him here. Not with what Frisk showed him. “Ya can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll save ya from this place like ya saved me, Frisk. I promise ya.”

_*His SOUL fills with KINDNESS._

* * *

A monster yells in pain before a boot crushes their skull, the cries cutting off as their body immediately turns into dust. The remaining pile is quickly swept up by the wind, scattering it across the forest floor.

Sans pushes Frisk’s head down as gunfire rains down on their makeshift barricade of dead humans. He flicks his hand, and burnt green magic coats it as he peeks out from behind cover to fire a few shots of his own. Bone constructs go flying, most hitting their mark while some miss due to enemies ducking behind the safety of trees.

“Type-004 has gone rogue!” One of the units yells into the mic. “I repeat, Type-004 has gone rog-”

They’re cut off as a blast from the left vaporizes them, Sans chuckling with a grin. “Nothin’ personal, buddy,” he says, ushering Frisk to move up, “but I gotta pay somethin’ forward.”

“We’re almost there,” they huff out, stumbling from the exertion of running for a solid ten minutes. Sans motions for them to get on his back and they oblige, bobbing with each light step he takes through the foliage. “I’ll yell to get their attention. They should’ve gotten the message ya sent out for me by now, but a little insurance can’t hurt.”

He nods to show that he hears them, focused on his trek across the forest. It serves to save his life as he jumps over a grenade lobbed at his head, pushing more magic into his legs to create as much distance as he can between them and the bomb.

They manage to get far enough away that the resulting explosion only rocks them a little, Frisk tightening their hold on his shoulders as he safely lands in a clearing. He wants to reassure them that it’ll be okay, that it’s fine like they’ve done for him, but the culprit of the grenade steps out into the open space and the magic in his bones runs cold.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Boss seethes, reloading a shotgun, “that my own ace in the hole turns against me _at the most crucial point.”_

Sans’ throat freezes up, his grip on Frisk tightening as his eyelights wink out. The plan Frisk made (which is too detailed, too elaborate with him involved in it that it suggests they knew he’d agree to join them all along - or that they were _counting_ on him to agree) has them meeting up with Frisk’s group before doubling back to hunt down the leader of the enemy sect.

They weren’t supposed to run into Boss.

“A shame, really,” Boss continues, pumping their shotgun. Their red eyes flash, and the weapon gets coated in a thin layer of magic the color of blood. “You had so much potential, Type-004.”

Frisk slips off his back, mouth set into a scowl as they step forward. “His name is _Sans,_ Chara!” They shout, their voice angry but steady. “An’ he’s as much of a livin’ being as the rest of us!”

Their voice helps Sans ground himself, green eyelights blinking back into existence. _That’s right. His name is Sans. The one and only thing he kept from his life in the white facility._

_But can he fight the one who set him free?_

Boss - _no, Chara, Frisk jus’ called ‘em Chara, how do they know each other_ \- smirks as they line up their first shot. “Oh, I _know_ the name it pathetically clings to. I also know it has only 1 HP. I wonder what would happen if it gets hit with one of my Determination Bullets?”

Frisk’s eyes snap open, panic filling them, and Sans is startled to see that they’re a cyan color. Isn’t their magic green? Right...it is. _So why’re their eyes…?_ _“Don’t you dare-!”_

Chara pulls the trigger.

A single gunshot rings throughout the clearing.

Sans’ eyelights shrink into pinpricks as red flies across his vision, hitting the ground with a sickening _splat._

Frisk sends him a shaky smile as they stand in front of him, their back to Chara. “Heya, Sans,” they cough out, and Sans watches in horror as more of that awful red dribbles past their lips and onto the ground. “Ya alright? Nothin’ hurt?”

“N-No,” he stammers out, and they chuckle weakly.

“...Good…”

They grimace before slumping over, and Sans rushes to catch them. Chara whistles at the scene before them, inspecting Frisk’s burned back.

“I never saw you move that fast before, Frisk,” they say off-handedly, swinging their shotgun to their side. “Not even for Asriel.”

Even though they’re in pain, Sans can see the guilt that flashes across Frisk’s face. “It was...an accident, Chara. Ya gotta...let go.”

Chara’s expression twists into one of pure unadulterated fury.“Of course you’d say that!” They growl out, violently reloading their gun. Sans thinks this is the most angry he’s seen them in all of his existence. “One that you shrugged off! One that _everyone_ shrugged off!”

Frisk coughs again, and in a panic Sans tries to heal them...but he’s too worked up, too _frantic,_ and his magic only serves to hurt them more. He pulls back quickly before flipping them onto their back in a burst of desperation, thrusting his hands onto the wound in an attempt to staunch the blood flow.

The white bone soon becomes washed with red, which drips to the soul and stains it. _Nonononono. This can’t be happenin’. Not like this...Not like this…!_

“‘cause there’s a time where ya have to move on,” Frisk replies weakly, their voice quieter. “Asriel...didn’t want this for ya. He didn’t want ya to destroy yourself an’ everyone around ya because of his death.”

“LIES!” Chara screams, and Sans’ SOUL stops as he realizes that they finished charging up their Determination Bullet with enough magic to kill even a Boss Monster. (He doesn’t want to acknowledge the tears running down their face just yet, because if it does then he’ll start to see them as a lost kid who was hurt and never stopped hurting, and then Frisk’s heroic act would go to waste.) “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE WANTED! YOU WERE THERE! YOU SHOULD’VE...YOU COULD’VE…!”

Frisk opens their mouth to say something else, but Chara fires off the round. Sans’ body moves this time, his magic an acidic green as he jerks his hand up to create a wall of bones strong enough to stop the bullet before teleporting behind Chara.

“Right,” he bites out, hot angry magic coursing through his bones, “we’re leavin’.” 

They shot Frisk. _They_ **_shot_ ** _Frisk._ If Sans doesn’t go get help _now,_ Frisk could-...they could Fall Down.

_He refuses to let them die._

Chara whirls around to face them, a retort sitting on their tongue, but the heated glare Sans sends is enough to silence them for a moment.

“So.” He starts, eyelights a blank white. “I've got a question for ya. Do you think even the worst person can change..? That everyone can be a good person, if they just try?”

A bell tolls in the distance. Something rumbles. The air hums, charged with magic, and Chara shivers.

**_*You feel your sins crawling down your back._ **

“I’m tired,” he continues with a strained grin, shifting Frisk so that he’s not irritating their life-threatening wound more than he has to, “of bein’ left in the dark. Of bein’ manipulated an’ left to rot once I ain’t useful anymore. Of goin’ along with your “Project_Geno”. I figured out that all I wanted was to live among the colors...an’ Frisk showed me how. I don’t wanna be empty. I sure as hell don’t wanna see ya manipulate anyone else. I owe ‘em a lot. So you, shootin’ my pal here?”

Chara freezes as his eyelights wink out, five Gaster Blasters appearing and charging up their green lasers with a loud whine.

**“ i s a s k i n ’ f o r a b a d t i m e . ”**

He’s about to let them loose when a hand reaches up to tug on his jacket. “Remember...the promise.”

_Don’t give up on others._

**_Don’t give up on yourself._ **

The monocle in his pocket sits heavy, judging. Accusatory.

He stares down at Frisk, and then he closes his eye sockets with a slow exhale before dismissing the weapons. Right. If he kills Chara now...If he destroyed them in a fit of rage, to avenge Frisk…

_How does that make him any better than them?_

“I better not see ya come near the Dreemurrs again,” he instead growls, but Frisk’s small disapproving frown has him falter. “....unless ya have an apology ready.”

The injured human gives him a weak thumbs up, and his eyelights pop back into existence, a dim green. “Welp. See ya.”

Chara drops to their knees, shotgun lying discarded as they stare at their shaking hands. Sans doesn’t spare his former boss a second glance before he takes off towards the rendezvous point, Frisk’s groans of pain pushing him to move faster.

_It’s time for him to SAVE someone for once._

* * *

**[Location: Dreemurr Therapeutics - Six Years Later]**

“Thank you for the help!” A skeleton clad in gold calls back in gratitude, making his way towards the door. “And I’m sorry if I seemed too overbearing. I’m more worried about my brother than myself at the moment, so I’m going to go check on him and get him to schedule a future appointment. Goodbye, Therapy!” 

He steps past the threshold, closing the door behind him. The office falls silent once more...until a voice over a phone speaker talks, their tone amused.

_“So...Therapy, huh?”_

A skeleton dressed in a black coat and a green turtleneck shakes his skull with a chuckle as he moves about his workspace, cleaning it up. “‘s what my other versions are callin’ me. Pretty fancy, huh kid?”

A groan of exasperation. _“For the last time Sans, I’m not a kid! I’m Frisk! I can’t believe ya picked up that habit from Outer!”_

Therapy’s chuckles turn into quiet laughter. “Heheheh. Whatever ya say…. _kid.”_

A _thunk._ Judging by the drawn-out sound of suffering Frisk is emitting from the video call, they had dropped their head onto a desk. _“I can’t believe ya.”_

_“SANS! STOP HARASSING THE POOR HUMAN!”_

A new voice enters the call, and Therapy grins as Papyrus shows up on the screen. Frisk must be in his office, then, though their wheelchair always gets stuck in the doorway. Seeing them flail their arms about the first time was so funny that he _had_ to record it, tears stinging his eye sockets as he cackled, and Papyrus started chasing him for _“NOT HELPING THE POOR HUMAN”_ while Gaster was the one to actually pull Frisk over the threshold.

“Sorry bro,” he hums, blinking twice to dispel the happy memory. “That’s a tall order. Lemme _wheel_ my way over to ya.”

_“That crude joke is most certainly picked up from Horror,”_ a third voice quips before its owner enters the frame.

“Heya to you too Gaster,” Sans shoots back with an easygoing smile, giving a wave as he drops the last box of materials into its rightful drawer. “How’s the retired life feelin’?”

Gaster heaves a sigh as he shakes his head in exasperation, but the other three know it’s lighthearted. _“Both relaxing_ **_and_ ** _worrying, as you are the one to take over my previous position.”_

“I’m doin’ fine.”

_“Last week Fell almost blew up half of the office because Chara came from their company to drop off a few papers. Which reminds me, they want your opinion on the most recent schematics of the machine.”_

“See? _Fine,”_ Therapy says as he opens a drawer located at the bottom left of his desk, pulling out a chocolate bar and taking a bite. “An’ I’ll pay ‘em a visit later. Might bring some of Tor’s butterscotch pie as a reward for their hard work.”

Gaster smiles, pleased with his answer. _“As long as you get on it. Now get some rest; it’s been a long day.”_

Frisk and Papyrus wave, and the call hangs up. Therapy leans against his desk with a sigh, staring at the ceiling.

_Six years._ Six years since that fateful clash with the Dreemurr sect. Six years since Frisk became paralyzed from the waist down, Chara’s Determination Bullet having hit their spine. Six years since he met the head figures of the Dreemurr sect, being welcomed with open arms despite his red-stained past.

And four years since Chara had stepped forward with an apology, offering a truce with the Dreemurrs which was sealed with the creation of Megalo Rehab. The building works both as a rehabilitation center for those who have given up on themselves and as a laboratory, Chara leading a team of scientists to design a machine that will let the Dreemurrs jump to various other AUs in case a distress signal comes in and the client is unable to cross over to their universe.

Therapy lowers his gaze to stare at his hands, his grin stuck on his skull. The road getting here wasn’t easy. His record isn’t clean, but thankfully he technically didn’t exist to the world before the Dreemurrs had him register to be a monster citizen. Soon after came Frisk’s suggestion of training him to be a therapist, having worked with Papyrus the resident Physical Therapist to get their body adjusted to the wheelchair life. He was put under Gaster’s tutelage, who was a therapist to three skeletons at the time: Dream , Outer, and Blue.

To be honest, he would’ve drowned in guilt over Frisk’s condition. They’re going to stay that way for the rest of their life, having thrown away an easy lifestyle in order to SAVE him, but they firmly took his skull into their hands and headbutted him.

_“It’s gonna take more than this to keep me down,”_ they had said stubbornly. _“This was my choice. My decision. I went in knowin’ the risks, and frankly I don’t regret it one bit. I got to SAVE ya.”_

They’re really cool. Papyrus and Gaster are, too, for accepting him into their fold and even calling him “brother”.

(Sometimes he thinks he doesn’t deserve this happiness, doesn’t deserve _them_ for all he’s done and with the _skeletons_ in his closet boring down on his very SOUL, but then they smile at him and he shoves the feeling down. _He learned to be a therapist to pay Frisk’s KINDNESS and PATIENCE forward,_ he reminds himself, _and he’s gonna do everything in his power to SAVE his clients._ )

Speaking of skeletons, seeing others who are, well…. _him_ made him question who he was. Now that he’s not a blank puppet to be manipulated, what does he do? Was there actually more to the Seers creating him, or was he supposed to rot in that white room for all eternity?

His earliest memory may be of the white room, but trying to think further back than that makes his skull hurt. He gets flashes of a being with a brown scarf and a giant... _something,_ but that’s the closest he’s going to get.

He gets the feeling that there’s more to his existence than he knows.

...But as there’s a knock on the door, signalling that his next client is ready to meet him, he realizes that sitting there and thinking about it isn’t going to get him far. The machine Chara’s building, however, is a step in the right direction; it gives him the power to search for his meaning across universes.

And he opens the door, a laidback grin on his face as he welcomes the rush of color.

He’ll find the answers later.

Now, he has a client to SAVE.

* * *

**{Epilogue - Doodlesphere}**

“Hm…” Ink hums as he stares down at a piece of paper. “Are you sure this will work?”

_I’m sure it will,_ a Creator responds to him, their voice quiet so that it doesn’t echo _too_ loudly in the open space. _Most AUs are suffering. Most AUs are in pain. They deserve to heal, and I’m certain he’s the best monster to help them through their trauma._

“So we give them a skeleton to talk to, is that it?” The skeleton asks, even though his pencil is flying across the page to form a sketch. “A version of _him_ that doesn’t Judge, only Listens and SAVES?”

He can’t see it, but the Creator smiles sadly. _Anything to relieve the burden even a little bit._

“...” The painter is silent as the sketch is completed within seconds, quickly moving on to make the lineart. Seconds pass before a big grin forms on his face, his mismatches eyelights green and teal as he fills in the drawing with color. “Interesting, interesting! I should visit at one point myself, see how well your idea works. Although…”

He glances to the side. There, lying on the ground next to him, is another piece of paper with pixelated colors floating around it. The letters D G A L E are formed, the rest in the process of being built.

“...what’s this AU for?”

_It’s a gift,_ the Creator says after a moment’s pause. _For you. It’s not ready yet, though. It needs some more time._

Ink brightens as he jumps to his feet, unholstering his paintbrush from his back and letting the brush side splat against the ground before getting to work. “I never received a gift from a Creator before! I can’t wait to see how it goes!”

And the Doodlesphere becomes awash with color once again.

**Author's Note:**

> And so concludes Therapy's Origin Story! The similarities between Therapy and Ink just keep piling higher, but they lead very different lives. I hope you enjoyed, and until next time! :D


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